No Foolish Wand-Waving
by stereolightning
Summary: Lily has been spending more and more time chez Potter over the Christmas hols, but so far she's resisting any labels. James enjoys her proximity and the amusing - occasionally terrifying - side effects of her lust and anguish. You don't always need a wand to do magic.


"Lily?"

"Hmm?"

James grins down at her, and at this close range, with his nose six inches above hers, he can still see most of her without his glasses. Her cheeks are pink, her blouse unbuttoned. Little red strands of hair adhere to her forehead with sweat.

"You don't know you're doing it, do you?" he asks.

She raises her head and looks around his parents' sitting room. In the kitchen, the kettle whistles fiercely, although no one lit the stove. Every houseplant has come suddenly, absurdly into bloom, and every candle has lit itself. Fire and flowers – this is the magic she activates when she doesn't intend it. Without a wand. Without even trying.

"Oh," she says, comprehension dawning. "No, I didn't realize. Does this happen normally? With wizards?"

He considers lying, because the truth is, he hasn't actually slept with anyone. Yet. He knows that powerful emotions can have magical effects. Does lust work like this, too? But no, he won't lie to her. Coolness be damned. "No idea, actually," he says.

She screws up her face in thought. "It's not you doing that?"

He shakes his head. "Definitely you."

She looks directly into his eyes. Green. Bright green, like the ocean around an atoll. She doesn't seem to care that he just laid his cards on the table. He wonders if she is as inexperienced as he is. They haven't come to that bit yet. Although, if this afternoon is any indication, The Conversation is imminent.

"I think it means you're a really powerful witch. It's sort of terrifying," he admits.

She frowns.

He laughs. "I love it. I love that you're terrifying. Do you do a lot of wandless magic?"

She shrugs.

"What else can you do?"

She shrugs again. He withdraws his hand from under her skirt, and she slides her knickers back up from around her ankles. He is fairly certain that the thing he just tried with her was a smashing success.

"Alright, mystery woman. I'm going to go shut off the stove. Try not to miss me too much." He winks at her as he puts his glasses back on.

The kitchen tile is cold on his bare feet. The shrill whine of the kettle dies as he banishes the blue flame on the stovetop. The room feels steamy, like a tropical greenhouse, although it is midwinter. He pours himself a glass of water. When did his mouth go so dry?

"Don't you have some tricks I don't know about, Potter?" she calls from the other room.

"Are we back to surnames?" he asks, gazing out the kitchen window at a cluster of winter birds that are hopping around a pile of sunflower seeds. His father loves these little birds. He goes out every morning and sifts out handfuls of seed for them. He spoils them.

"Well, what should I call you? Prongs? Jim?"

"How about James," he mutters, rolling his eyes.

"Nah, has to be a nickname. Monosyllabic, preferably."

He adjusts his fogged-up glasses, decides they are too damp, and rubs them on his jumper. "Six of one, half a dozen of the other," he says.

He doesn't notice that she's behind him until her fingers are sliding into his front pockets and her nose is pressing into his back.

"Hello again," he says, leaning back a little on his heels, smirking happily at her comfortable touch.

"Hi," she says, unbuttoning the top button of his jeans. "When do your parents get back?"

"Lil," he pretends to protest, _badly_, because she is almost tickling him with her feather-light touches on his stomach, and he is biting back laughter.

"When?" she presses him.

"I don't know. An hour?"

"Mmm. Good."

He smiles so hard it almost hurts. Her hands are everywhere. She doesn't quite know what she's doing, but it doesn't matter. "Padfoot's still asleep upstairs."

"Would he care, though?" she asks.

She has worked all the buttons free now. "Probably not."

"I wonder if you'll light the stove, too," she says, feigning scholarly detachment as his jeans drop. "Only one way to find out."

He can barely keep standing. He is dizzy with pleasure and anticipation. He may also have lost control of his mouth, because instead of _fuck that feels amazing_ he says, "Are you going out with me?"

She stops. How unmerciful. "You mean, am I your girlfriend?" she asks.

He catches his breath. "Yeah. I mean, it's whatever you want. I'm not complaining. I like having you around. I'm just wondering if this is – you know, _something_. Like, are we telling people? Are we sitting together on the train tomorrow?"

Her hands pull him back against her. "It might be something," she says, suddenly earnest.

"Yeah. I know," he says, and his voice drops an octave. When did this get so serious? He turns around to face her, her arms still wrapped around him. Perhaps it's awkward that his jeans are a blue puddle around his ankles. Or perhaps not.

"Part of me wishes it was just flirting, or snogging, or I don't know. God. We both know there's a war coming. It will only be harder if we get attached," she says.

"Will it?"

A crease forms between her eyebrows. "War does horrible things to people. You _know _that. You live with a refugee. Well, sort of a refugee. A political outcast, anyway."

"True."

"But the other part of me says we should stick together. That we would look out for each other. You would, wouldn't you? If someone tried to off me because my parents are Muggles. Or because I fight back. Which I intend to do."

"Yes. I would."

"See, I knew that. The point is – this _is _something. Isn't it. _Fuck_." Her voice breaks. She's gone weepy.

"What's wrong with that?" he asks.

She sniffs. "Because we could lose each other so _easily_. Look at the state of things. Look what's happening to our friends."

"Alright, yes, that's possible, but fuck it." She laughs at him through her tears. "Seriously, FUCK it," he continues, buoyed by her amusement. He puts his hands on her shoulders. "Fuck the war, fuck the Dark Arts, fuck You-Know-Who. I've waited for you since I was thirteen years old and I'll be damned if just the _idea_ of Voldemort – yeah, I'm saying the name – takes you away from me before I even get the chance to do anything about it."

Her eyebrows are practically level with her hairline. She blinks. "Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Okay, let's have The Conversation."

Her words hit him like a stunning jinx, but he regains his balance quickly. "Sorry, can I put my jeans back on? Only, it seems weird to do this half-naked in my parents' kitchen."

Her nose wrinkles and she grins. "Yeah. Alright."

He fastens his fly and sits on the countertop. He pats the spot next to him and she sits down there, her thigh against his. She takes his hand and rubs his knuckles nervously with her thumb. Her palm sweats.

"Lily Jane Evans," he begins, with a reverence he is only half-faking.

"That's not my middle name," she says.

"What is it, then? Elvendork?"

She snickers. "No."

"Lily Elvendork Evans. Sure about that? _Groovy_ little name."

She swats his shoulder playfully.

"Evans. Be my girlfriend?"

"Yes. And I prefer Lily. Or Lil."

"Done. No more surnames for you."

She exhales, and he can hear her nerves in her breath. "That's thing one," she says. "Thing two. Uh. I like you. A lot. Which you could probably tell after what just happened."

"I'd have to be pretty thick not to know."

"I'm not ruling that out."

Now it's his turn to swat at her, which he does limply, ineffectually, because it's _Lily_, and he is still not totally convinced that she won't either hex him or tell him off. She giggles and musses up his hair. He summons a plate of chocolate biscuits and pushes it at her. A peace offering. She takes one. So does he.

"You came. Just now, on the sofa," he says.

"Yes."

"Thought so."

"Hence the fireworks," she says.

A minute passes. They finish the entire plate of biscuits.

"You haven't done this before, have you," she says.

"Nope. Nor you, I take it."

She kisses his neck. "Almost. Once or twice. Shit, this is really intimate."

"Yes," he says. He thinks maybe a joke is called for. "Have you ever thought about shagging on a broomstick?"

She sighs. "Can we deflower each other somewhere normal, please? Your bed, for instance."

His breath catches. He swallows.

"That shut you up," she smirks.

_Hell,_ he wonders, _did Snape learn that smirk from her, or the other way around?_ It is strikingly similar. He wonders how many hours they spent staring at each other and perfecting their smirks as children. He runs his hand through his hair a few times to clear away that disturbing thought.

"You never answered my question," she says, setting the china plate on the counter with a hollow ceramic _ting_.

"Which?"

"Do you have any tricks I don't know about? Magically double-jointed? Preternaturally good at limericks?"

"Well. Now you mention it."

"Ha! Knew it. Show me."

"I thought you were going to test your stove theory on me."

"Tricks first," she says.

He flicks his eyes heavenward, wondering if this is a horrible idea. He has kept one particular thing from her. One illegal thing. "Okay. I have to stand up."

She grins and taps her fingers excitedly as he walks a few paces forward. He takes out his wand and performs the familiar bit of transfiguration, and his hands become hooves. He rears onto his hind legs so she can get the full effect.

"Holy sodding Christ, Jim," she gasps. Then she laughs. "You are _insane_."

She runs her fingers lightly along his antlers, as if verifying that they are real.

"This is so weird. You _look _like a wild animal."

He nuzzles her hand.

"Alright, change back, change back," she giggles. "You're freaking me out. I want my boyfriend back."

He does change back. _Boyfriend_ is a compelling epithet, he thinks. He sits back down beside her.

"You _would_ pick a stag," she snorts.

He shrugs. "Had to pick something large enough."

She frowns. "Large enough for what?"

_Oops. _He really is shit at poker. Particularly around her. "Lily," he says. "I will tell you everything. I promise. But some of this isn't mine to disclose. I have to... check with people." _Moony, for starters. _

Then she's looking at him, and into him. Until now, she has never just _beheld_ him like that. He thinks he would like to sit here and be nourished by her gaze for a long time. He remembers a bonfire on the beach one summer, years ago, when Padfoot threw a bit of copper into the flames, making the fire burn green, brilliant green. Something about the chemical reaction. Her eyes are this exact color. And as much as he can hardly wait for her to finish doing whatever she wants to do to him on this kitchen floor, or in his bed, or wherever she likes, he feels content just sitting and looking and being looked at.

He'll probably never stop teasing her, not completely, but they've moved past the point where teasing was all there was. They have crossed the Rubicon. And it will be tricky enough keeping her safe from this pureblood supremacist shit, but she will do more, she will fight alongside him, and there is no question that losses are coming down the pike.

But maybe their teasing anchors them. Maybe banter isn't just banter. Maybe their affectionate japes and wicked kisses are acts of hope. Acts of defiance, even.

She starts unbuttoning his jeans again, and they find their way back to where they were a few minutes before. Her touch is tentative, so he reassures her, and within minutes he is panting and releasing and yelling some combination of her name and several choice swear words. All four burners burst into flame on the stove.

"That one was you," she says.

"I know," he says.

A month later, when they deflower each other in his four-poster, they nearly burn down Gryffindor tower.


End file.
